


Troika

by AconitumNapellus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Christmas, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Slash, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 19:19:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AconitumNapellus/pseuds/AconitumNapellus
Summary: After they escape from a masked ball, Illya and Napoleon take refuge in an empty mansion.For sparky955, for the 2018 Down The Chimney Affair. The prompt was 'Christmas pudding, a midnight sleigh ride, and a a fireplace that won’t stay lighted.'





	Troika

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sparky955](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparky955/gifts).



The ballroom was aglitter, strung with tassels and tinsel and baubles, a riot of colour. Amid all that chaos chandeliers blazed from the high ceiling, their light glinting from all the metallic, multicoloured facets. Cherubs and plaster beasts looked down impassively from the ceiling mouldings. Fabled creatures, faces from myths, and kings and queens whirled in the room, reflected in the clear, gilt-framed mirrors on the walls. Christmas trees stood in niches, tables were piled with glasses of champagne and trays of tempting titbits, and a small orchestra played their music ceaselessly for the joy of the swirling couples in the room.

Napoleon’s dancing partner was beautiful; pouting lips smooth with lipstick, eyelashes made bold with mascara, cheekbones highlighted with skilfully applied blusher, eyeshadow echoing both the blue-green of the sparkling masquerade mask, and the deep midsummer blue of the eyes. This slow, close dance was the perfect opportunity to gaze into those eyes only a few inches from his own.

He tilted his head a little closer, inhaling deeply. Even the perfume was perfect. And those eyes; he could fall into those eyes. He had never noticed until now quite how amazing those eyes were, like bursts of rippling blue flame around the depthless black pupils. How could eyes alone be so mesmerising?

‘We should move a little closer to our mark,’ his partner said softly.

Napoleon blinked, catching his breath, reminding himself yet again of what they were here to do instead of falling into those eyes and feeling the blood warmth through his fingers where his hand lay on the waist of that intricate, amazing dress.

‘I’ll try to dance you that way,’ he said gallantly, seeing a gap in the whirling bodies, and moving towards it.

‘As long as you manage not to stamp on my feet. You know, I’ve had dancing lessons. I don’t know why I had to be the woman,’ Illya murmured, his mouth close to Napoleon’s ear as they circled gracefully across the parquet floor.

Napoleon was dressed as a man of the nineteenth century, splendid in a dark tail coat and waistcoat. He had left his dapper gloves, cane, and top hat in the cloakroom. Illya was a fantasy eighteenth century sea nymph, in an elaborate dress of turquoise and green, with a glittering mask across his eyes. His blonde wig looked as natural as the corn-blond hair Napoleon knew was underneath, and some kind of corset under the bodice cinched his waist in, making him look far more feminine than his usual blocky shape.

‘You’re shorter than me,’ Napoleon murmured back.

‘Not all women are shorter than all men,’ Illya said darkly.

‘Certainly in your case, chérie,’ Napoleon replied, favouring Illya with one of his more charming smiles.

He inhaled that scent of perfume again, letting it fill his head. He had always been a sucker for a good perfume, and the woman who had dressed Illya and made him up must have had a good nose. It was bizarre, experiencing all this aurora of scent and female frippery around the mundane and compact package of his masculine partner.

‘Napoleon, did you just _smell_ me?’ Illya asked incredulously.

‘Well, you _do_ make a delightful woman,’ Napoleon said with a dazzling smile.

He took advantage of a swell in the music to swirl Illya around with a little more force, shaking the biting reply that Illya was about to give right back into his mouth. He grinned at Illya, and Illya glared at him through the mask, but he followed the pull of Napoleon’s arms gracefully enough. They needed to be able to see what Schneider and Lehmann were up to, and Napoleon danced his partner with a deceptive carelessness closer to the two men.

They were very close now, and Illya’s forehead furrowed prettily. He was focussing on what the men were saying. Illya had the edge on Napoleon at understanding German. The two men they were here to spy on were standing at the edge of the mass of dancing couples, talking quietly, and it was hard to pick up every word. Then Schneider moved a little, turning to pick up a glass from the table behind him, and Napoleon caught sight of another man just entering the room through a side door.

‘Uh-oh,’ he said.

‘What?’ Illya asked.

Napoleon didn’t let his tension translate into his body movements, but just danced Illya smoothly away from the Germans and closer towards the door.

‘Possible problem,’ he murmured.

The man was looking their way, and he needed not to be seen. He needed to hide his face. The solution came almost without thinking. He slipped a hand softly onto the back of Illya’s neck, pulling him closer, leaning in. Their lips touched. The kiss was long and languid, but Napoleon kept moving, swaying Illya ever closer towards the door. Illya didn’t close his eyes, but he kissed Napoleon back without hesitation. Illya’s lips were so soft on his own, the feel of them startling him. He had never imagined that Illya’s lips would feel like this…

They were at the tall, ornate double doors. He thought he saw that man making a quick movement across the room, but he was blocked by another pair of dancers. Napoleon slipped a hand back to turn the doorknob, and stepped out with Illya into the wide reception hall. The kiss died away as suddenly as it had begun.

‘What?’ Illya asked swiftly, but Napoleon just said, ‘Exit. Now.’

They moved towards the door, ignoring the curious looks of the few staff out there, and through into the biting cold outside. The spreading grounds were smooth with snow, the sky black and glittering with stars, and their breath clouded into white puffs around them.

‘Which way?’ Illya asked in a low voice, his skirts rustling as he turned to look around him.

Napoleon drew in a breath, composing himself, then took Illya’s hand delicately in his own. He raised it a little, and escorted him as if he were a lady, down the steps to the curving driveway below. There was a low sleigh standing there with three chestnut horses hitched to it, abreast of one another, stamping their feet a little on the packed snow. Napoleon wondered where the driver was, but he saw a dark figure standing in the shadows nearer the building, and the ruby glow of a cigarette. More fool him for leaving his charges unattended. Napoleon handed Illya gallantly into the sleigh, then followed him, slipping his hand under his jacket and finding the cool solidity of his gun. Before the man with the cigarette could so much as move, Napoleon’s gun had made a soft little sput. The man dropped into the snow.

Illya already had the reins in his hands, and he shook them swiftly, letting the leather ripple on the horses’ backs, starting them into a walk.

‘I hope someone finds him before too long,’ Napoleon murmured, glancing towards the dark figure of the driver, slumped beside the wide steps. ‘Sleep darts don’t protect from hypothermia.’

Illya called out to the horses, snapping the reins again, not bothering to keep to the high, ladylike tones he had been using all evening. The horses picked up their pace a little, and the sleigh began to move faster around the curve of the driveway, towards the avenue of trees and the gates beyond.

‘They’re glad to be moving,’ Illya said.

‘I would be too, if I’d been standing in that cold,’ Napoleon said.

‘What was all that about, Napoleon?’ Illya asked then.

The air was cutting past them, chilling Napoleon’s face. He glanced at Illya’s bare collarbones. Women’s clothes weren’t made for functionality. Instinctively he wanted to find a blanket or a robe and cover him up. He looked so much like a woman that Napoleon didn’t know what to think when he looked at him.

‘I saw Helmut Fischer just coming into the room. He’ll know me from Munich. If he recognised me it’s all over.’

‘It’s all over anyway,’ Illya muttered disgustedly. ‘I hardly heard anything useful, and we can’t go back in there now. It’s all gone to waste.’

Napoleon tutted. ‘Now, now, chérie. We did what we could. Mr Waverly couldn’t ask for anything more.

Illya growled. ‘If I take this ridiculous dress off will you cut the endearments, Napoleon?’

Napoleon laughed. ‘If you take that ridiculous dress off you will be blue with cold.’

‘I’m a cold weather specialist, remember,’ Illya said.

He held out the reins towards Napoleon. When he didn’t take them, Illya shook them a little.

‘Take the horses,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to drive past anyone like this. I look absurd.’

Napoleon took the reins, but he kept his glance half on Illya, fascinated. His partner put his hands to the waist of the wide, spreading skirts, fiddling with something a few times before the waist gave way. A zip hissed as he slipped it down, splitting the skirt from waist to hem.

‘Hmm, very clever,’ Napoleon said admiringly.

He hadn’t been involved in Illya’s dressing, but he knew that the dress had been well-planned, and made to fit. His own nineteenth century costume had been carefully constructed so that it could be stripped down to become a reasonably presentable modern suit, but Illya’s dress was so much more complex. It had been a sight to see when his partner had come into the room fully made up, bewigged and gowned, ready for the masquerade ball. He had thought it would all be called off when the snow came down so hard, but it seemed that people in this area of the country were used to that, and sleighs had replaced cars. He had felt curiously proud to escort Illya to the ball.

‘Just watch the horses,’ Illya said, fiddling with something inside the folds of fabric.

Napoleon pulled a little at the reins, getting the horses to follow the curve of the driveway. It was hard to watch anything but the horses ahead of them, with their rounded rumps swaying in front of him, but he supposed they could see where they were going, at least.

He glanced over his shoulder at the house that was receding behind them. Yellow light spilled from the windows over the snow, but he could see another yellow crack of light that was the front door opening.

‘Illya, I don’t know if we’ve got time for this,’ he murmured. He could see a figure in the doorway, and suddenly there was a shout.

He cracked the reins against the horses’ backs, and they picked up more speed. Illya was ripping a bundle of fabric from the inside of the thickly structured skirt, shaking out a pair of trousers, pulling them on. Napoleon shook the reins again and the horses moved faster. The gates had been open when they came in a few hours earlier. He had to hope they were open again now.

He snapped a glance at Illya. His partner was a bizarre sight now, bare-footed, trouser-clad, but his waist was still cinched with the corset and the bodice of the dress. He was still wearing the sparkling mask and the make-up, but he had pushed the wig off his head and it lay by his feet in the footwell of the sleigh. He was fumbling inside the skirt again, getting his gun from a cunningly sewn holster pocket in there. As Napoleon urged the horses onward Illya raised his gun, aimed it with narrowed eyes, and let off a shot.

The man in the doorway slumped.

‘That should buy us more time,’ Illya said in a satisfied tone.

The horses were passing through the open gates. The road outside was thick with snow, but that snow was cut through with the runner grooves of other sleighs used by the dozens of guests who had been forced to come the old fashioned way. That would make them harder to follow, at least, and it made it easier for the sleigh to run through the hard-packed grooves. Snow kicked up from the horses’ hooves as they raced away from the massive country house and into the silent, snow-covered darkness of the German countryside.

Illya was pulling out a tiny jar of cold cream and a scrap of cloth. He started scrubbing the make-up from his face, gradually erasing the painted on contours and revealing the more masculine shape of his jaw and cheekbones. He ruffled his eyebrows back to thickness, and swabbed away the eyeshadow.

‘Well, do you have the kitchen sink in there, too?’ Napoleon asked, impressed.

Illya grinned, his face pale in the moonlight. He was slowly becoming himself again, and for that Napoleon was extremely grateful. He reached out a hand to ruffle Illya’s hair, which had been smoothed down slickly under the wig, and Illya shivered and sighed as the cold air finally reached his scalp.

‘The dress might have been ridiculous, but there’s a lot of room under a skirt with panniers,’ he said. ‘I even have a sensible pair of shoes. I could never run in these torture devices I’m wearing. I don’t know where women keep their toes.’

‘Resourceful Russian,’ Napoleon said. He picked up the discarded, glittering mask and held it up to his own eyes. ‘It’s odd having you back again. I’ve never seen you look so enchanting as you did this evening.’

‘I noticed,’ Illya replied dryly.

Unbidden, the memory of that kiss flooded back. How soft Illya’s lips had felt. He still had the taste of lipstick in his mouth. He had initiated the kiss for entirely practical reasons, and he had resisted opening his mouth and flicking his tongue towards Illya’s, but only with effort, because the kiss had felt so perfect. It had been hard to remember that he was doing it only to hide his face from Fischer. It hadn’t been that he had felt that he was kissing a woman. It was that suddenly, behind all the scent and the make-up and the shimmering fabrics, it had been Illya, all Illya. It had felt perfect.

Rather self-consciously, he wiped the back of his hand across his lips. He looked at Illya again through the safety of the mask he was still holding with his other hand. It was good to have him back again with his proper face, even if he were still wearing a bodice. But that kiss had felt so good. It had felt so right.

Something sparked inside him, a feeling that made him want to jump up and run and shout. It shivered right through his body; a formless need to _do_ something, to sing aloud, to – to fuck. It was that feeling that arrowed right down into his groin, that made him want to fuck. _Illya_? Was it Illya that he wanted to fuck? It wasn’t the make-up or the clothes that had attracted him. That frippery on his practical partner had felt so strange. It was touching his lips against Illya’s, feeling the heat of him, knowing what it was like to kiss Illya. That was what had set him alight.

‘We need to find somewhere to hide out,’ Illya was saying.

‘Huh?’ Napoleon asked, dropping the mask back into the footwell.

‘We need to find somewhere to hide out. They’ll be looking for us before long. We need to get a long way away, and then we need to hide out.’

‘With a sleigh and three horses?’ Napoleon asked incredulously.

Illya shrugged bare white shoulders covered only by a shimmer of gauze that served to disguise the masculinity of his bone structure.

‘We’re out in the country. A lot of the wealthy will have moved into the towns over the winter, while everything’s stopped by snow like this. There will be empty houses, and in all likelihood they’ll have places to put even a sleigh and horses.’

‘How far can horses like this run?’ Napoleon asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Illya said. ‘I must have missed my horsemanship training.’ Then his eyes glittered. ‘But, this is a troika, Napoleon. Russian. They’re made for speed.’

‘You didn’t miss your sleigh identification training, then?’ Napoleon asked rather dryly, and Illya tusked.

‘I know a troika when I see one, Napoleon. Three horses, and the maker’s name is written in Russian. It’s a beautifully crafted vehicle.’

He was rummaging, pulling out a long-sleeved black poloneck shirt from his store inside the capacious skirt.

‘Napoleon, can you help me with the bodice?’ he asked, turning a little. ‘I can take the reins again.’

Napoleon grinned, handing the reins back to Illya. He touched his fingers down the back of the bodice, feeling the satin of the material to find the fastenings. He fumbled with buttons and hooks and eyes, until suddenly the thing gave way and opened down the back. Beneath there was a corset, tight with carefully knotted string. He undid the knot and began to unlace the thing, feeling as if he were opening a present, or – no – as if he were releasing a wild animal from captivity. Illya’s bare skin began to show beneath, glinting like pearl in the ghostly light of the moon. He almost looked unreal, not like a living thing at all.

‘Ah, breath,’ Illya said dryly, rubbing his ribs. ‘I’ve missed breathing.’

‘Well, think of the generations of women who were put through this torture,’ Napoleon remarked.

He got the strings fully undone and helped to ease the corset and bodice from Illya’s body. His partner’s arms were bumpy with gooseflesh. Napoleon rubbed a hand over the cold skin of his back, trying to rub out the marks left by the corset with his fingertips.

He realised that he was lingering for no other reason than to touch the solid softness of Illya’s flesh. He cleared his throat and dropped his hand.

‘Get that top on. You’ll freeze,’ he said, so Illya handed the reins back, and started to pull the poloneck over his head.

Back in black, he looked every inch the agent again. He bent to pull off the shoes that he hated, and he hurled them joyfully over a snow-laden hedge and into a field. He rolled socks over his feet, and put on the shoes that had been hooked inside the pannier frames of his skirt. He was Illya again, pure and simple, his hair tousled, his face beautifully free of paint, his body simply silhouetted in his black clothes. Napoleon gazed at him, drinking him in.

‘Napoleon?’ Illya asked, catching his look.

Napoleon cleared his throat. ‘You must be cold. You should have thought to pack a greatcoat under those skirts.’

Illya snorted. ‘There were limits, Napoleon. I’m all right. If I have to I’ll put that skirt around my shoulders.’

He took the reins again from Napoleon, and stood up just for the joy of it, making a clicking noise somewhere in the back of his mouth. The horses pricked their ears and looked around. Their breath was clouding in the moonlit air. Illya shook the reins and called out a command, and the horses picked up speed again, faster than they had gone before. Napoleon just sat back in the seat and watched Illya in his element, a Russian driving a Russian sleigh, the wind rippling his hair and the moonlight highlighting the slightness of his strong body as they sped along the road.

 

((O))

 

‘There,’ Illya said, standing with his hands pressed into his armpits for warmth, looking up at the facade of the building before him. ‘I told you we’d find somewhere.’

‘It’s a lovely little place,’ Napoleon said, eyeing the great, square eighteenth century building in front of them. ‘It goes beautifully with your dress, my dear.’

‘I don’t need reminding of that dress,’ Illya said with a little shudder. ‘Anyway, it’s good shelter, and it’s obviously all shut up for winter. We’ve gone far enough that our tracks are thoroughly merged with all the others on the roads, and we need to let the horses rest. They’re exhausted.’

It was true that the horses needed to rest. They weren’t lathered up with sweat because the night was so cold, but it was obvious that they were tired. They unhitched the three of them and led them into a vast old stable and then pushed the light little sleigh into shelter. There was a rack of mouldering hay, and the horses looked rather askance at the offering, but they would be able to eat if they were hungry.

Napoleon and Illya stepped out into the yard again, and crossed to the main house. Clouds were starting to gather across the face of the moon now. Hopefully snow would fall, further covering their tracks.

Illya bent close to the door of the house, examining the lock.

‘It’s too solid for our explosives,’ he said, ‘and too heavy for a pick. We’ll have to find a window.’

‘That better be soon,’ Napoleon commented, ‘because my hands are going numb.’

‘ _Your_ hands are going numb? At least you have a coat,’ Illya said tartly.

Napoleon looked Illya up and down. The thin poloneck was no protection against the cold. He had the ridiculous urge to gallantly strip off his tailcoat and put it around Illya’s shoulders, but he knew that Illya would refuse it. He did the next best thing instead, and went to a great wooden-framed window and started to jimmy it open.

‘After you, mon ami,’ he said, gesturing towards the slim gap he had made.

Illya gave him a look in the failing moonlight, and lifted a leg over the sill to slip through the low space. Once in, he pushed the window more fully open. As Napoleon clambered in after him, snow began to fall.

Inside the space was wide and high, and almost entirely dark. Napoleon reached into his pocket for a lighter, and flicked it into flame. Illya saw a light switch by the door, and moved to press it. Nothing happened.

‘Damn, the power must be turned off,’ he muttered. ‘On the plus side, that probably means the house is going to be empty for a while.’

‘I’m sure we can manage,’ Napoleon shrugged. ‘Maybe there’s a pantry some place out back with some candles in it.’

‘There are fireplaces, at least,’ Illya said. ‘Or, there are chimneys. I saw them against the sky. We should be able to warm up at last.’

Napoleon touched a hand to Illya’s hand. His fingers were icy cold.

‘You’re freezing,’ he said.

‘Your deductive powers astound me. Listen, I’ve got a lighter too. Why don’t you scout out some candles and I’ll try to get a fire lit?’

‘It’s very late,’ Napoleon said. ‘Look for a bedroom where we can hunker down and catch some sleep.’

‘I’ll look upstairs, then,’ Illya said. ‘Go and find those candles.’

Napoleon nodded, and moved on through the house, looking for the narrower doors and meaner spaces which would indicate servants’ areas. He found a kitchen, and then a pantry. It was largely bare of food, but there was a stock of candles on one shelf, and a box of matches that he took, thinking it would save the lighter. He put them all into a bag that was hanging on the back of the pantry door, then lit a candle and pushed it into a holder, and dug around a little more, looking for anything to eat. He found something hanging, wrapped up thickly in muslin cloth and tied with string. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed. It smelt rich, of fruits and sugar and alcohol, so he dropped it into the bag. That was the only article of food that was there, but he found a couple of bottles of wine on another shelf. The good stuff would probably be in a wine cellar, but this would do. He rummaged in drawers and found a corkscrew and a knife. It wouldn’t be a gourmet meal, but he and Illya had hardly had the chance to eat earlier in the evening, so this little store would be very welcome.

He found Illya in a bedroom upstairs; a room that must have changed very little since the time when the house was built, resplendent with a four poster bed, and mirrors and paintings and antique furniture. Illya was on his knees in front of the small hearth, trying to get the fire lit. Napoleon moved around the room putting out candles in convenient places, so that each little glowing sphere of light overlapped the next and lit the room as much as possible. He closed the curtains tightly. They wouldn’t cut out the light entirely, but they would make it less obvious, and they would keep the heat in, too.

‘How’s it going, partner?’ he asked, angling his head to better take in Illya’s posterior as he bent forward to blow gently on nascent flames.

‘Terribly,’ Illya muttered. ‘I’ve been trying to get this fire lit for the past ten minutes. I think the Ghost of Christmas Past must be standing behind my shoulder blowing it out every time it starts to take.’

‘Let me have a go,’ Napoleon offered, coming to kneel beside him. He put a hand over Illya’s briefly. ‘God, you’re freezing,’ he said.

‘You don’t need to tell me,’ Illya murmured.

He stood up and turned around to look at the room, with its host of flickering candles.

‘What do you think?’ Napoleon asked, feeling a little proud at his own efforts.

‘Either you’re a vampire or you’re planning to seduce me – or both,’ Illya said.

Napoleon felt a little flush of heat in his cheeks that wasn’t from the tiny flame he was blowing into life.

‘Could be that I just want to be able to see my hand in front of my face,’ he said, without looking round.

He took one of the candles and poured a little melted wax onto the sticks of wood and lumps of coal in the fireplace, then set a match to it again. The wax flared into brilliant flame which licked along the kindling. He grinned, but his smile faded again as the wax was eaten up and the flames died away.

‘Are you sure this wood is dry?’ he asked, disgruntled.

‘As dry as it’s going to be,’ Illya said. ‘It was already in the fireplace. They must have set it up ready to light when they come back.’

He came back and knelt down by Napoleon again, bending in to blow gently as Napoleon held another match under the wood. Napoleon found himself focussing not on the fire, but on the soft, steady stream of Illya’s warm breath, which was brushing over his fingers where he held the match.

‘Dammit!’

The match had burnt all the way up to his fingers, and he dropped it into the grate, shaking his hand.

‘Let me see,’ Illya said, taking Napoleon’s hand in his own and turning it to look at where soot blackened the edge of his fingertip. ‘Not badly burnt,’ he said. ‘You just like making a fuss.’

‘I didn’t say I was badly burnt,’ Napoleon said a little snappishly. He felt rattled by just how distracted he had become, so enthralled with the feeling of Illya’s breath that he hadn’t even noticed the flame creeping up to his flesh. ‘It just hurt.’

‘All right,’ Illya said, sitting back on his heels, dropping Napoleon’s hand. ‘Why don’t you let me have another go?’

‘You’re freezing cold,’ Napoleon said. It was cold enough in here that their breath was clouding as if they were still outside. ‘Let me do it. You go bundle up under the bedclothes. The candles’ll start warming the space in a while, at any rate.’

Illya regarded him for a moment, unspeaking. His skin was golden in the flickering candlelight, and his eyes looked more green than blue, like the eyes that might belong to the sea nymph that he was playing earlier.

‘Go on,’ Napoleon said. ‘I’ve got a coat, at least. Get under the covers.’

He didn’t watch Illya going over to the bed. He bent back to the fire instead, and tried another match, holding it under the wood until the flame crept right up to his fingers again and he was forced to drop it. He tried another few matches, but all of the paper had burnt away now, and the wood just wouldn’t catch. He threw the box of matches down in disgust, and turned back to the bed.

The room was a sea of greens and blues, all highlighted with gold from the candles. It made Napoleon think of an undersea fantasy. At the centre was the four poster. Its dark wood made no more than silhouettes in the flickering light, but the hangings about it were of green-blue silk, the covers deeply embroidered in the same undersea palette. Illya had buried himself down beneath the quilts, and all that showed was his head, his hair as gold as the candlelight, as gold as the gilt picture frames on the walls and the brass fittings on the furniture. Napoleon caught in breath. When he finally exhaled the moisture beaded in the air, and he saw Illya through the pale little cloud.

‘Uh, room for a friend?’ he asked, catching himself, bringing himself back to reality. It was so cold in here, and there was no way the fire would light.

Illya moved his hand under the quilts, perhaps patting the mattress in welcome.

‘There’s room for an army in here,’ he said. ‘It’s cold, but it’s warming up.’

Napoleon came across the room and stood by the bed. It would be uncomfortable in all his clothes, so he shrugged off the tailcoat and waistcoat, removing his tie and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. Then he kicked off shoes and socks and slipped out of his trousers, before getting quickly in under the quilts. He gasped a little at the dank chill of the fabric around him, which clung to him like a shroud. He moved quickly closer to Illya. The mattress seemed to be a feather one, with little structural integrity, and his movement was magnified into a roll that left him pressed hard against Illya. Illya had moved too, with Napoleon’s sudden weight in the bed, and they were facing each other, trapped by gravity.

Illya’s breath clouded against his own. He still smelt a little of the perfume and make up, and of the cold cream he had used to clean it off. Behind that the scent was all Illya, such a familiar, welcome thing. Napoleon parted his lips a little, meaning to say something, but whatever that was was erased from his mind, because he saw that Illya’s eyes were softened, his own lips parting. Illya moved an inch closer, and their lips touched. Cold met cold that suddenly became warm, and then hot as lips parted and Illya’s tongue sought into Napoleon’s mouth, tasting him deeply.

He fell into the kiss, aware of nothing but the taste of Illya and the closeness of him and the feeling of his lips. His hands were moving almost of their own accord, pushing through the hair at the back of Illya’s head, stroking his skin, feeling the strength of the muscles under his clothes. Illya’s hands were moving too, touching Napoleon, a finger tracing the shape of his ear, a hand running under his loosened collar, pressing at his neck so that he couldn’t draw away. Illya’s fingertips were so cold they felt like ice on his skin, but it was a wonderful ice.

He didn’t want to draw away. He wanted this kiss to go on and on forever. What was air? Was there any need to breathe when this was happening to him? He wanted to be closer to Illya, not further away. He wanted to feel every inch of him.

In the end, he had to breathe. Illya pulled away first, gasping in air, his hand still lying on Napoleon’s neck. The softness was still in his eyes, but it was ameliorated by a kind of intermingling fire.

‘I thought – we could improve on that other kiss,’ he said somewhat breathlessly, his accent thicker and darker than usual.

‘Yes,’ Napoleon said. ‘Y-yes.’

How often did a kiss make him stutter? How often did a kiss make him lost for words?

‘I didn’t get it wrong,’ Illya said, and there was a little uncharacteristic uncertainty in his voice.

‘No,’ Napoleon said. He could feel Illya’s pulse through his fingertips, fast but steady. ‘ _No_ , Illya. You got it just right. God...’

He let his fingers rest there just under Illya’s ear, feeling the beauty of his pulse. He had seen Illya’s blood far too often. He knew just what it looked like; the vibrant, terrifying red of it, the iron scent of it. He even knew the taste of it. There had been times there had been so much blood it had ended up on his hands, smeared on his face, in his mouth. There had been times when Napoleon’s hands were the only things stopping all the blood from leaving Illya’s body. There had been times when Illya had done the same for him.

He kept his fingers there, feeling the strength of Illya’s heartbeat, trying to control his ballooning sense of the vast importance of Illya’s life. He knew Illya’s life was important; he felt it all the time. But right now it felt like something that was too huge to handle, like something that was expanding through him and taking up every part of him. Every time they went out on a mission there was a risk of death. Even now, holed up in this empty house, cloistered together in this soft bed, there was still a risk. They still had to get out of the country. They needed to get home. But at home there was risk. Walking down the streets of New York City at night there was a risk. Always, there was risk. Illya was precious, so precious it almost made him weep.

‘God, Illya,’ he said softly, still feeling the warmth of the skin of Illya’s neck beneath his hand. He moved a leg closer and felt that Illya’s legs were bare too. He had stripped down to his poloneck and underwear when he got into the bed. His legs were chill, but warming. His torso had a warmth all of its own. He pressed his legs against Illya’s, feeling the solidity of him, the light hairs over his skin, the firmness of his muscles.

They were kissing again, pressing closer, his chest against Illya’s chest, their pelvises pressed together, and – oh, he could feel a hardness against the thin cotton of Illya’s underpants, pressing into his own. This was for _him_ . Illya, the icy, perpetually unimpressed Illya, was hardening for _him_.

He stroked a hand down Illya’s back and felt the taut muscle of his buttocks, fitting so beautifully under the curve of his palm. He felt the smooth back of his thigh, and stroked up again, his fingertips tracing the dipping cleft between his buttocks that was bridged over by the briefness of cotton. Illya’s lips moved harder against his at that touch, a little moan just heard in the back of his throat.

He thrust himself more firmly against Illya, pushing his hips forward so that they were pressing together through the cloth of their underwear, the straining, so-sensitive length of his erection pushing hard against Illya’s. Then Illya growled and pulled away from Napoleon and thrust his hands down under the covers to push off his own underpants, to grasp at Napoleon’s and wrench them down his legs, so that then they were touching, heat against heat. The feeling of the bare, thin skin of Illya’s cock against his own was intoxicating. He felt dizzy with the sensation of it.

Illya put his hand around both of them, pressing them together, so that he could feel Illya’s pulsing blood pushing against his own. He was exploding with desire, with the fire that had flared up in him, with this sudden, unquenchable love for his partner. They rocked against one another, thrusting through the grip of Illya’s hand and Napoleon’s hand over his, their fingers tangled so that they couldn’t tell whose were whose. His tongue searched deep into Illya’s mouth again as they hungrily tasted one another, as they built a fire between their bodies, inside their gripping hands.

He was so hard he couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t get close enough to Illya’s heat and hardness. He wanted to be inside him, around him, part of him. He couldn’t kiss him hard enough, he couldn’t envelop him, he couldn’t be intermingled, atom for atom. He wanted to roll him over and thrust himself inside Illya’s body, fuck him until he was drenched in sweat, and come in the heat of him.

He held himself back, held his hand harder around their joined erections, kissed Illya more deeply, drowning in love. He pushed himself over and over, harder into their gripping hands, against Illya’s hard, burning cock. He was on the crest of a rollercoaster, waiting to careen down the slope. It came suddenly, the bursting in his mind, the incandescent feeling as if together they were filling the universe. He cried out against Illya’s mouth, feeling the vibration of Illya’s cry against him, hearing him through every cell of his body.

…

They were lying together in the bed, their hands clenched around their softening cocks, their lips brushing together. A cool wetness was in his palm, on the back of his hand, on his belly. Illya moved a little, and sighed, and Napoleon softly kissed him.

‘What a mess,’ Illya murmured, flexing his hand a little.

Napoleon lay there, trying to read Illya’s eyes in the flickering candlelight. The room was reforming around them, a strange fairytale place of golden flames, and rich fabrics flickering and fading in the inconstant light.

‘You mean – that,’ he said, nodding his head down a little. Then he looked back up and caught Illya’s eyes. ‘Not – _this_.’

‘Not _this_ ,’ Illya promised him. ‘Not this. But – ’ He laughed. ‘We haven’t been very good house guests.’

Napoleon echoed his laugh. ‘That’s all right. We’re not guests at all. We’re brazen burglars. We are vile little grassy snakes who break into houses at night and fuck in strangers’ beds.’

‘Hmm, that sounds like a delightful career,’ Illya said, wickedness glinting in his eyes.

Napoleon felt with his other hand around in the bed and caught fabric, someone’s underpants. He brought them up to help contain the sticky, cooling fluid that was clinging to their skin.

‘Are those mine, or yours?’ Illya asked cynically, moving his own hand to wipe it on the fabric.

‘I have no idea,’ Napoleon said with a grin. ‘Who’s ever they are, maybe we can dry them out over a candle.’

‘You’re so romantic,’ Illya said witheringly.

‘Speak for yourself,’ Napoleon returned.

Illya tilted his head forwards and kissed Napoleon lightly on the lips. Napoleon lay there with the cloth bundled between them, feeling so relaxed and warm and content that he could barely move.

‘Shall I try to light that fire again?’ Illya asked.

‘Why bother?’ Napoleon replied. ‘I’m warm enough in here. We can make our own heat.’

‘I’m hungry,’ Illya mentioned.

‘Ah, that reminds me,’ Napoleon said, thinking of that muslin-wrapped item of food he had grabbed from the pantry. ‘I’ve got something to help with that. Shall we go look for a bathroom and wash up?’

‘The water’s probably turned off to stop the pipes bursting,’ Illya said in a practical tone. ‘I think we’ll have to make do with wiping down on our clothes.’

At least that meant they didn’t have to get out of bed. Now it was warm under the covers it was like being cocooned in marshmallow, with feathers beneath them and feathers on top of them. Napoleon turned away from Illya across the giving mattress long enough to push one arm out into the startling chill of the air. He felt around on the floor and picked up that muslin package, one of the bottles of wine, and the corkscrew.

‘I found provisions in the pantry,’ he said, and a glint lit in Illya’s eyes at the sight.

‘What is that?’ Illya asked, poking at the muslin cloth.

‘No idea, but it smells good. Why don’t you find out while I open the wine?’ Napoleon asked.

He busied himself pushing the spike of the corkscrew in and slowly twisting out the cork, while Illya fiddled at the delicate task of untying the strings which held the muslin bunched closed. He unwrapped it to reveal a dark, sticky globe. A dark scent of sugar and dried fruit rose into the air.

‘Christmas pudding!’ Illya said in delight.

‘In Germany?’ Napoleon asked him, poking at the thing. ‘I thought that was a British thing?’

‘It is,’ Illya said. ‘I have no idea why they have a Christmas pudding, but here it is. Maybe they’re Anglophiles. Maybe they just like it.’

‘They’re going to be disappointed as hell that they left it behind,’ Napoleon murmured.

‘It might be for next year,’ Illya shrugged. ‘They’re a curious beast. They don’t get old. They just mature. They might have made this one to sit in there all year for next Christmas.’

‘Ah, well, they’ll have plenty of time to make another, then,’ Napoleon said in satisfaction. ‘You – er – think we can eat it as it is?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Illya shrugged. ‘They’re steamed. That’s why it’s in the cloth. It’s already fully cooked.’

‘Ah,’ Napoleon said.

He dug his fingers into the top of the pudding and broke off a moist chunk. It was rich and soft and sweet and the scent of brandy was everywhere.

‘Oh, that’s good,’ he said, breaking off another bit and offering it to Illya. Illya ate it straight from Napoleon’s fingers. Napoleon took a mouthful of wine from the neck of the bottle, and offered it to Illya to wash down the pudding.

‘I haven’t eaten one like this since Cambridge,’ Illya said.

Napoleon wondered if the expression on his face at tasting the pudding was anything like the expression that would have been on his face at the point of orgasm. If it were, Napoleon would have been flattered.

He took another swig of the wine. It was all right. He wouldn’t have wanted to pay for it, but it was perfectly fine for lying in bed in this candlelit room, eating cold Christmas pudding in bed with Illya.

‘Tell me about Christmas in Cambridge,’ he said.

‘Ah, Christmas in Cambridge,’ Illya said with a drifting smile. ‘I was used to New Year in Kyiv being full of snow. Christmas in Cambridge was hardly ever white, Napoleon. It wasn’t a picture postcard. It was usually grey, drizzly, dark by five. It’s flat land. When it’s dull, it’s _dull_.’

‘I thought you were going to spin me tales of a proper old English Christmas,’ Napoleon said, rather disappointed. ‘I can’t ask you to spin me tales of Russian Christmas, can I?’

‘New Year was our Christmas,’ Illya shrugged. ‘It wasn’t so different. But I do have a fondness for a British Christmas, Napoleon, despite the weather. I didn’t mind there not being snow because it meant it wasn’t so cold. And they celebrated beautifully. Have you ever been to a proper carol service, Napoleon?’

‘I’ve been to plenty back home,’ Napoleon shrugged.

Illya smiled. ‘Not a carol service at King’s, sung by the college choir. That’s a beautiful thing, Napoleon. It doesn’t matter how much hard science I had been studying up until then, going to something like that blew it all away. The candles, the age of the chapel, the voices of the choristers rising up to the roof.’

‘And Christmas puddings?’ Napoleon asked.

‘Not in the chapel,’ Illya laughed. ‘But there were a few good Christmases that I spent with a friend. Roast goose with stuffing, Christmas cake, Christmas pudding, trays and trays of mince pies. I usually ate so much I could barely move.’

‘A friend?’ Napoleon asked, feeling a sudden, unwonted prickle of jealousy.

‘Just a friend,’ Illya said, taking the wine again and tipping it against his lips. ‘I did know people before I knew you, Napoleon. I didn’t live my life in a cloister until I joined U.N.C.L.E.. What about you? Why don’t you tell me about your Christmases?’

Napoleon shrugged. He moved a little closer to Illya, feeling the warmth of him. His breath smelt of the Christmas pudding and wine. It was intoxicating.

‘Ah, they were just the usual American Christmases,’ he shrugged.

‘I’m Ukrainian, Napoleon,’ Illya reminded him. ‘I haven’t had any usual American Christmases – not beyond the ones I’ve shared with you, or the U.N.C.L.E. Christmas parties.’

‘Well, family Christmases were all about the tree, the presents, the food. There were a few Christmas services in church,’ Napoleon said. ‘I guess our choristers were just as good as yours in Cambridge. Maybe almost as good as your Russian choirs. They were fun times. I suppose the magic died a little as I grew older. It always does.’

‘It does,’ Illya sighed. He took another mouthful of wine, and passed the bottle to Napoleon. ‘I quite like this tradition we’re starting, though. This feels good.’

Napoleon moved his hand down under the covers again, feeling the length of Illya’s torso through the thin poloneck cotton, then the beautiful beginning of flesh, of wiry hair, and his soft cock nestled in it.

‘I’m always happy to start new traditions,’ he said.

He let his hand lie over Illya’s cock, feeling it thicken a little, twitching under his palm. It was such an amazing thing to be able to do that, to have this intimate access to Illya. He was softened with the wine and half-full with the Christmas pudding, and although the air was cold on his face every part of him that was under the quilts was warm. Illya’s hand moved to lie over his, and then sought sideways, finding Napoleon’s own cock, and the feeling of his fingertips on that sensitive skin made shivers run through him.

‘You know, if you were a woman you’d be telling me it was very nice, but we need to get to sleep now,’ Napoleon said, eyeing Illya as his strong fingers kept moving down there.

‘Well, that’s the joy of us both being men,’ Illya said with a grin.

‘Do you know how much I wanted to fuck you back then?’ Napoleon asked. ‘I mean, how much I wanted to be inside you? Hands are great, but – ’

Illya sighed. ‘Do you know how much I wanted the same? But not without any lubricant, Napoleon. I’m not that starry-eyed.’

‘Ah, well,’ Napoleon said regretfully. The craving to be inside Illya was so big he felt it with every cell of his body, but he wanted to give him pleasure, not to hurt him. ‘That cold cream?’ he asked hopefully.

‘I used the whole jar. But when we get back home,’ Illya said, meeting Napoleon’s eyes.

‘It’s a hell of a Christmas present,’ Napoleon grinned. He let his hand rest on the heat of Illya’s flesh, and mused, ‘I wonder if they’ve left anything in the bathroom cabinet...’

Illya laughed. ‘If you want to go exploring in this cold, by candlelight, be my guest, Napoleon. You know where I’ll be.’

Napoleon held his gaze for a moment, letting himself fall into the depths of Illya’s eyes, then looking over the fullness of his lips, the slight wine-flush on his cheeks, his mussed golden hair. Then he said, ‘Hold that thought. I’ll be back as soon as possible.’

 

((O))

 

Illya was kneeling in front of the fireplace again when he came back into the room, naked and goose pimpled from the waist down, but he had finally managed to breathe some life into the wood, and that was starting to give a red glow to the coals. Napoleon hesitated in the doorway with the pot of cream he had found, just watching. Illya was bending forward, blowing gently on the flame. His buttocks were taut and pale in the candlelight, the dark swing of his balls just showing between his legs. Napoleon looked at the pot in his hand, and back at Illya again, his desire ballooning.

‘And I thought _I_ was the flirt,’ he said, and Illya looked around with a flashing grin.

‘I got the fire lit,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes, you really did,’ Napoleon replied, loading his voice with as much innuendo as possible.

Illya snorted. ‘It doesn’t take that much to light _your_ fire, Napoleon. A soft breeze on a summer’s day would do that.’

He turned back to the fire, leaning forward and blowing again. Napoleon came across the room and knelt down behind him, stroking a single chilly hand over the smooth expanse of his naked behind. He was already getting hard, and when Illya sighed a little at the touch he grew harder still.

‘Jesus, Illya, do you know what you do to me?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Illya said prosaically. ‘I was counting on it.’

He stayed kneeling there, blowing every now and then on the fire. The wood had blazed into crackling flames and the coal was starting to catch. Heat was creeping into the room, at least into the little bit of room in front of the fire. Napoleon pushed Illya’s black top up his back, exposing his skin, bending to lay kisses on the bumps of his spine. He stroked a finger along Illya’s neck, tracing his ear, kissing him there. Then he stroked a hand softly up the inside of his thigh until he was touching the ridged skin of his balls. Illya moved his legs a little further apart, sighing, and Napoleon felt the soft weight of his balls in his palm.

‘You found something, then,’ Illya said.

Napoleon kissed his spine, kissed a little lower, and lower, until he was kissing the swell of his behind.

‘I found something,’ he said.

He took the lid from the little jar and dipped his fingers into the oily cream. He knelt a little closer to Illya so that his hardened cock swayed and nudged at the back of Illya’s thigh.

‘May I, Illya?’ he asked softly. ‘May I do this?’

‘If you don’t, I’ll turn you over and do it to you,’ Illya said in an impatient growl.

He bent himself forward a little more, splaying himself, and Napoleon saw in the candlelight that dark pucker that he had wanted so much before. It would be so tight and hot, so good around him. God, how he wanted him. He pushed Illya’s top further up, bunching it, slipping it over his head so his partner was kneeling utterly naked and flickered by firelight on one side and candlelight on the other. He looked like a mythical figure, half flesh, half bronze. Just the sight of him made Napoleon dizzy with the need to be in him. He slipped his own shirt off so that he was naked too, cool where his back was to the room, hot in flashes when Illya moved and the heat of the fire touched him.

He slicked the cream over the length of his cock, enjoying that feeling of his fingers about himself, anticipating how much better it would be when he was inside Illya. Then he dipped his fingers again into the cream and touched a finger lightly to Illya, stroking down the cleft between his buttocks until his fingertip naturally slipped to the tight dip at the centre. Illya moaned a little, and Napoleon applied just enough pressure that his finger slipped through the tight, gripping muscle and into the heat of Illya’s body.

It was so, so hot, so intoxicating to feel the inside of Illya. It was hotter than his mouth, slick and tight, and he slipped in another finger, scissoring gently, feeling Illya’s muscles clenching about him. Suddenly he needed so badly to be inside him.

He held himself back for a few moments, making sure that Illya was ready, but then he withdrew his fingers. He touched his cock to that place instead, easing gently forwards. Illya gave such a low, needful sound that it sent thrills through him. He used a little more pressure, pushing through the compressing tightness, slipping himself home like a sword entering a sheath. It was so hot inside Illya. So hot, so beautifully tight all around him. He pushed forward until he was buried in Illya, until his hipbones were pressing against Illya’s ass, and it felt incredible. He never wanted to leave this place, but he wanted to move, too. He needed to move.

He eased back, and Illya moaned out a long sound of pure pleasure. God, how he wanted to be filling him again, how he wanted to be moving in him and making Illya make that noise. He thrust again, moving a little faster now that Illya was more used to his size, and Illya groaned low in his throat. He put his hands on Illya’s hips, holding him, pulling him back as he thrust so he was entering him more fully, more deeply. The animal sounds he was drawing forth from Illya made him feel wild.

He rolled his arm right around Illya’s body so he could grip his hand around Illya’s hard cock, so that each time he thrust himself into Illya, Illya was pushed into the tightness of his hand. The world narrowed into heat and sensation, into their sounds chiming together, their gasps of pleasure, their deep moans, as he fucked Illya deeply, intensely, harder and faster and harder and faster until he was exploding into Illya’s body, jetting his seed deep inside him, and Illya was coming into his hard gripped hand.

He butted against Illya’s behind, feeling the beautiful, firm muscle of him pillowing against his hips. Then he stilled, just holding him, a hand on his hip, a hand about his softening cock. It was incredible. It was incredible to be privileged to see Illya like this, head down, panting, utterly stripped down to his animal nature. It was incredible to have been allowed to be inside the heat of him, to be allowed to fuck him like this, and hear his inarticulate sounds of joy.

‘I want to do that again, and again, and again,’ Napoleon murmured.

Illya made a little, tired noise, and Napoleon could feel it through his body, through the clenching about his cock.

‘Next time it’s my turn,’ Illya said, and Napoleon felt like he couldn’t wait until next time.

‘I love you,’ Napoleon said, kissing his shoulder and then his spine.

He heard the little catch in Illya’s breath. He wished suddenly that he hadn’t said it, but he had meant it. He had meant it with all his heart. For a long time, Illya had been the closest person to him. He had been the most important person to him. They had trusted each other with their lives. He _did_ love Illya. He loved him so desperately that he didn’t think he could exist without him.

‘Illya – ’ he said. He didn’t know what he was going to say after saying his name. He didn’t know what he could say.

‘I love you too, Napoleon,’ Illya said gently.

He turned himself, because Napoleon was soft now and out of his body. He turned to face Napoleon, smiling almost shyly, looking strangely self-conscious about his nudity. His skin was flushed and patched with red where the fire had warmed it.

‘I’ve loved you for years,’ Illya said. ‘I just didn’t realise I loved you like this.’

They came closer to each other, kissed, arms about their naked bodies, feeling cool and heat and sweat under their hands. Illya’s heart thudded against Napoleon’s palm. His breath was hot and beautiful. Napoleon stroked a hand into his hair, feeling the delicate shape of the skull that held everything that made Illya who he was. He kissed him again, because he couldn’t seem to stop wanting to kiss him.

‘The water was running in that bathroom I found,’ Napoleon said at last. ‘It’s cold, but it was running. Let’s go clean up, then get back into that bed.’

 

((O))

 

The fire had died to ashes, and the room was cold. In the deepness of the night Napoleon and Illya had gone about the room snuffing out the candles, but the fire had smouldered on, warming the room gently, giving out its dim light. They had fallen asleep tumbled close together in the feather bed, warmed by each other and the quilts around them. Now the room was blue with morning light reflecting from snow, the candles were still, half-burned, trailed with cold tears of wax, and the fire was utterly gone.

Napoleon lay there a little while, just the top of his head poking out from under the quilt, his nose still warmed by the covers. The place looked unreal in the morning light, the blues and greens of the décor and the snow-reflected daylight making it look like an undersea scene. The candles made him think of streamers of seaweed, still in the waters.

One of his arms was over Illya’s flank, their naked legs hooked over one another, their skins warm against each other. He poked a hand softly at Illya’s side, and Illya squirmed. He said something, half-muffled, and then his head came out from under the quilts.

‘Oh,’ he said, blinking. Then he said, ‘Morning, Napoleon.’

‘Good morning,’ Napoleon said warmly, turning his head to kiss Illya lightly on the lips.

Illya blinked again, looking around, then said, ‘Oh. _Oh_. Last night. That was real, wasn’t it?’

Napoleon chuckled. ‘Oh, it was more real than anything I’ve ever done in my life.’

Illya looked muddled. ‘I was dreaming… I think I was dreaming. But – No, it was real, wasn’t it?’

‘It was real,’ Napoleon told him again. It felt so intensely real, with Illya’s naked flesh all along his. He cupped a hand against Illya’s cheek. ‘I think you need to wake up properly.’

‘Yes,’ Illya said. ‘Yes, I do.’ He was silent. His eyes closed, and for a moment Napoleon thought he had gone back to sleep. But then he blinked again, focussed, and said, ‘I suppose we should get out of here. I wonder if there’s a coat I can borrow...’

‘Well, we’ve burnt their candles, eaten their food, drunk their wine, and made love in their bed and in front of their fire,’ Napoleon shrugged. ‘We may as well go all out and take a coat or two, if we can find some.’

‘I wonder where my clothes are,’ Illya mused.

‘I think they’re on the floor somewhere,’ Napoleon said. ‘I can – ’

‘Don’t worry,’ Illya said. ‘I’m the cold weather specialist, remember?’

‘I didn’t know that made you immune to cold,’ Napoleon said, but he didn’t mind lying there and watching Illya’s slim body as he slipped out of the bed and moved hastily around the room, picking up items of clothing.

They dressed under the quilts, then got out into the cold, smoothing the covers down again so it looked as if no one had been there. Napoleon moved about the room gathering up the candles, snapping frozen wax from surfaces. He threw the prised up bits into the fireplace, and left the candles neatly on the hearth.

‘It’ll be obvious someone was in here, but we can at least convince them we’re neat,’ he said, turning to see Illya opening the curtains to let in more of the cold morning light.

The world outside was thick with snow, the sky a white blur of cloud that arched to the horizon, where it met the white blur of snow-covered fields. There was nothing moving as far as the eye could see.

‘I think the world was frozen in the night,’ Napoleon said.

‘People don’t come out in weather like this if they don’t have to,’ Illya shrugged. ‘The whole country’s bound up with snow.’

They went downstairs. Illya rummaged about in the cupboards and found a couple of dark woollen overcoats that wouldn’t be perfect winter wear to protect them from cold, but would at least make them look more anonymous once they were back in civilisation. Together they brought the sleigh out into the white world and harnessed up the horses, puzzling for a while over all the straps, until they were settled in place. Illya settled himself with the reins in his hands, and Napoleon sat beside him.

‘We should have looked for gloves,’ he said.

‘Our hands will have to get cold,’ Illya shrugged. ‘We can’t treat that house like a clothes store.’

‘We’ve already treated it like a hotel,’ Napoleon objected. ‘But I take your point.’

Illya shook the reins and the horses began to take the strain. The runners cut smoothly through the snow, making a hissing noise as the horses picked up speed. Napoleon picked up the remains of Illya’s broad skirt from the floor and spread it over their laps, making a travelling blanket. The air was so cold that it scalded his lungs, and his face burnt.

‘It’s a marshmallow world in the winter,’ he began to sing softly, and Illya glanced at him.

‘Really, snow isn’t anything like marshmallow,’ he objected. ‘Snow is clean and beautiful.’

‘And you don’t like marshmallows?’

‘I like them well enough,’ Illya said, ‘but the world would be sticky if they fell from the sky.’

Napoleon made up his mind to buy some marshmallows when he could, so he could watch Illya eating them. He sat there in the sleigh, watching the countryside slipping past, watching Illya’s concentration behind the reins, the horses’ pricked ears and their little interactions with one another, touching their noses together and whickering, their breath steaming in the air.

It was hard to believe that last night had been real. It was hard to believe that any of this had been real; Illya dressed as a nymph, the sleigh ride through the darkness, the grand room full of golden candlelight, and Illya’s hot, beautiful body bending to his will. He thought ahead, to how many times there might be in the future; coming over to Illya’s apartment after work, or Illya coming to his, and spending the evening and night together like that. Fucking in hotels in far flung places, kissing in secret in places where it was illegal even to have those thoughts. It would be strange, and hard, and beautiful.

‘We’re about fifty miles from the city,’ Illya said at last. ‘And I saw the smoke from an engine over there, about a mile away. We should walk a while, I think, then try to jump a train, to blur our trail.’

They left the sleigh and set the horses loose, hoping they would gravitate towards people, finding shelter and food. They walked together along the road, feet trudging over packed tracks left by runners and wheels. Snow started falling again, dusting them with freezing flakes, and their feet grew colder and colder in their inadequate shoes.

Eventually they came to railway tracks that must have been cleared already that day and on many days before that. Great banks of snow were thrown up, hard and glittering and studded with dirt, on either side of the rails. Napoleon and Illya lay there, shivering in the snow, until a goods train came rumbling past, first a hissing of steam and the bellowing of the whistle, then the rumbling of wagons behind. The banks of snow were high enough and the train was going slowly enough through the snow that it was easy to jump from the bank onto the canvas covering in the half-filled wagon.

‘I wonder what we’re on?’ Illya mused.

Napoleon sniffed. It smelt like earth and damp. He pressed his hand over the thick canvas, feeling the lumps beneath.

‘Potatoes, maybe,’ he said. ‘Turnips. Something like that. Nothing as good as our trusty Christmas pudding.’

Illya laughed aloud as Napoleon produced the remains of the pudding and the bottle of wine from inside his coat. Napoleon had been hiding them. He eased the cork from the bottle and passed it to Illya.

‘You know, I’m looking forward to a good, square meal,’ Illya said, but he took the wine and he ate the pudding hungrily when Napoleon unwrapped it and split what was left in two.

‘I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at this delicacy in the same way again, after last night,’ Napoleon said. He eyed Illya. It would be reckless and idiotic to make love to him on top of a vegetable wagon, but, oh, he wanted to.

‘You’re insatiable,’ Illya said, reading his look.

‘With you, I am,’ Napoleon admitted.

‘We’d be crazy to do anything here,’ Illya said, and Napoleon just looked at him.

Illya grinned and reached out to Napoleon, patting him down. He found the little jar of cream in his trouser pocket. He fixed Napoleon with his steady gaze, pushing him softly onto his back on the lumpy canvas cover. Snow kept falling, grey against the sky, scattering onto the canvas, onto their clothes and hair.

Illya moved his hands to unzip Napoleon’s fly, and Napoleon did nothing to stop him. He peeled his trousers and underwear down, just enough, and the cold hit his skin, every snowflake that touched him melting and beading and running away. Illya undid his own fly, pushing his hand into his underwear. He knelt there over Napoleon, masturbating in the hot intimacy of his own clothes. Then he pushed down his underwear enough to let his cock slip out, hard and flushed. Napoleon bit his lip, lying there, watching the wide, cloud-covered sky moving above them, feeling the sway of the wagon around them. The sides were high enough to shelter them from anyone who happened to be in the fields they were passing through, and they had come across no bridges in this flat land.

Illya took some of the cream and slicked it over the length of his cock, so that it glistened in the air. He reached his hand between Napoleon’s legs, feeling for the hole there, slipping his fingers in as Napoleon had done to him last night. Napoleon tipped his head back and drew his knees up and opened himself for Illya. It was such a good feeling. Inside him, his nerves were alive with pleasure, thrilling from the sheer wonder of having Illya’s fingers there, touching him so intimately.

Illya drove in in one slow, smooth movement, burying himself to the hips in Napoleon. Napoleon groaned aloud, the sound small against the noise of the moving train and the clatter on the rails. He tilted himself a little more, letting his legs fall back, and Illya took him by the thighs and held him hard. He withdrew a little, and Napoleon moaned. It was such a good feeling, a feeling beyond compare. He needed Illya to come back inside him, to move and move and move.

Illya did. He knelt there, holding Napoleon’s legs, his eyes distant and his forehead a little furrowed, a beautiful look of concentration that Napoleon usually associated with him thinking about a difficult case. But the look fell away as he started to move faster, almost withdrawing and then bringing himself back harder and harder each time, so that Napoleon’s back jerked on the knobs of vegetables beneath him, and he couldn’t hold in his cries. His own cock was hard, and he wanted Illya to touch it, but Illya made no move to do so, so Napoleon grabbed himself in his own fist, pumping himself as Illya ground into his body.

Illya came with a bellow louder than the train whistle. Smoke was streaming overhead as the train forged across the land, its whistle shrieking aloud. Napoleon cried out, and his own cock jerked, juddering come into his hand as Illya spasmed inside him.

Illya slipped out of him and knelt there, panting, his head dropped, a hand splayed on the canvas. He stayed still only for a moment, and then he scraped up a handful of snow and used it to clean himself off, throwing what didn’t melt out over the side of the wagon. Napoleon sat up and tried to do the same, shivering viciously in the cold. He pulled up his clothes as soon as possible, and sat there, feeling the slight soreness and satisfaction inside him. It was as good being fucked by Illya as it was fucking him. It was as addictive as a drug.

He touched a hand to Illya’s cheek, and kissed him. Illya kissed him back breathlessly, feverishly, as if he wanted to do it all over again.

‘We must look presentable before we get off the train,’ Illya said, though, stroking his fingers through Napoleon’s hair and patting it smooth. He took a moment to straighten Napoleon’s tie, and tighten up the knot. ‘There. You are perfect.’

Napoleon touched his fingers to Illya’s hair, taking more time to brush it into Illya’s usual style. He was trying to cling onto the feeling of what they had just done. It had been reckless and idiotic and amazing, making love with Illya on top of a vegetable wagon, with cold hands and hot desire. He felt as though he were just counting the dead minutes and hours until they could be somewhere private, and they could do it all again.

 

((O))

 

They jumped off the train into a snow bank just outside of the central station, and slipped quietly into the streets, merging with the crowds of people going about their day, bundled up and red-cheeked in the cold.

‘We’re in the right place, at least,’ Illya murmured, because in the event of their mission failing they were supposed to come back to this city, where they would be able to make the right connections to get out of the country. It felt like so far and so long since they were in that ballroom, far more than a night ago. It felt to Napoleon as if the entire world had changed around them.

‘We’re in the right place,’ Napoleon nodded, ‘but we can’t meet our contact until six. We have about four hours to kill in the city.’

Illya slipped his hand briefly into Napoleon’s, holding it just long enough to curl their freezing fingers together, but not long enough for anyone to notice the shocking sight of two men, hand in hand.

‘The cathedral is over there,’ he said, nodding towards a great, beautiful Gothic building on the other side of the square from the station. It towered above everything, pinnacles and gargoyles and flying buttresses all laced with snow. The snow whirled down through the air, like ash against the white sky, like white wings against the dark faces of the buildings.

‘There’s a poster up,’ Illya said, pointing it out. Napoleon could just see it through the falling snow. ‘There’s a carol service. It must have started about ten minutes ago. The acoustics in a place like that will be incomparable, like listening to angels in heaven. Why don’t we go in?’

Napoleon already felt as though he had experienced angels in heaven, last night, and again and again every time he looked at Illya. He put a hand onto the small of his back, though, and followed him into the cathedral. The singing in there was pure and sweet, rising through the frozen air and up into the vaulted spaces above. Hardly anyone looked around as they entered the building and slipped into a pew near the back. Illya sat and listened, his face rapt, and Napoleon thought of how he must have looked in those services in Cambridge ten years ago, and how he must have looked as a youth of eighteen, listening to the secular choirs of Kiev. He didn’t need angels in heaven. He had everything he needed here on earth.


End file.
